I was born blind,
but that was ok,
for everyone my age was born blind too.
My father and mother said they had sight once;
and they kept telling me stories about what life was like then:
fairytales about people they saw, places they visited,
flowers of every color possible but black,
but I never understood what they were talking about.

I was born blind,
but that was ok,
because you don’t miss what you don’t have.
But my parents seemed to,
for they kept talking about mountains they climbed,
forests they passed through,
rivers they camped beside,
and lots and lots of things that you and I know
are no longer true.

Recently I’ve been having strange dreams.
I see myself looking at the sky,
but it is not black anymore.
Someone or something gave it this … this amazing color.
But that is not all;
I see myself dancing, painting, singing;
I’m holding my passport, waiting in line to travel;
I’m riding in my car with my friends to visit a city of my country, using only a map for directions;
I’m acting in a theater;
I’m writing stories;
I … I’m happy; I’m different; I’m alive.
Then suddenly… black comes back.
I remember I was born blind.

But for the first time,
it is not ok.